The Mage's Mistake
by Pirotessa
Summary: Drizzt is taken to another world, where the magic is different, and nobody has ever seen a drow elf! A crossover of Forgotten Realms and David Edding's Belgariad Mallorean series. Chapter 8 up!
1. Default Chapter

The Mage's Mistake  
  
Drizzt advanced on the goblin shaman, the last of a large party. The shaman backed himself into a dead end, all the time looking around desperately for an escape. Drizzt smiled grimly. The goblins had actually thought to take Mithral Hall. Drizzt, Wulfgar, and Bruenor had soon relived them of that delusional fantasy. The shaman was quickly chanting a fireball spell. But in his fear and anxiety, he left out some words and substituted others. His adversary continued to come closer, knowing that his scimitar Icingdeath, a magical blade, would deflect any fire damage. But he stopped with a frown, realizing that the words the goblin was chanting were totally unfamiliar. Then to his horror, he realized that the goblin was improvising. But it was too late. A large lavender cloud enfolded him in a second. He tried to fight it off, but to no avail. He felt an unbearable pain and passed out. Then in a heartbeat, he was gone. Wulfgar gave a cry of shock, rushed forward and grabbed the shaman by the front of his tunic, and lifted him off the ground.   
  
"What treachery is this!?" he roared.  
  
The goblin took one look into Wulfgar's furious eyes, and passed out. Wulfgar looked helplessly over at Bruenor who was franticly inspecting the place where Drizzt had disappeared from and said, "What now?"   
  
- D.A. Yes, I know this is short, but it's the very beginning. I'll continue soon. (P.S. More talking next time!) 


	2. Chapter Two

The Mage's Mistake  
  
"Zakath! You came!" said the King of Riva as he greeted the Emperor of Angarak.  
  
"Of course I came. We left as soon as we got your message about the Alorn council."  
  
"You're late though. Everyone else is already here."  
  
" Garion, Mallorea is a half a world away. It takes time to sail, even in good weather."  
  
"I know that. Oh, by the way, where's Cyandis?"  
  
"She's still in the boat.."  
  
"Ship."  
  
"Ship, boat, whatever. Anyway, she's on the ship.., never mind, here she comes now."  
  
Garion waved to the former Seeress of Kell as she walked up the path from the docked ship. When she arrived, he swept her up in a hug.  
  
"Cyandis! You're looking more beautiful than ever!"  
  
The Empress of Mallorea blushed and said modestly, "Thou art kind, King of Riva."  
  
"Nevertheless, it's true. Ce'Nedra and the other ladies have been waiting for you. Oh, and Cyandis, my name is Garion, not King of Riva or Godslayer." But Cyandis did not hear him, for she was already climbing into the waiting carriage. Garion sighed and climbed in after her, motioning for Zakath to follow.  
  
After Zakath and Cyandis had settled in the castle, they joined the others in the council room. Garion smiled and looked around at the rulers and nobility of countless countries, all who were either close friends or acquaintances of his. With increasing frequency, however, non-Alorn rulers were coming to the yearly council at Riva. He laughed softly, remembering what had happened when Zakath and Cyandis had first came to Riva. There nearly was a riot in the streets, and the remnants of the Bear-Cult nearly had collective apoplexy. But it had all calmed down eventually, just like everything else had. His smile faded as he turned to the mound of paperwork that was the bane of every monarch. He sighed, and then saw his Aunt Pol looking at him, and their eyes met in perfect understanding. Then he sighed again and turned to the agenda.  
  
"Well," rumbled Barak, an enormous red-bearded Cherek, an old friend of Garion's, and also the Earl of Trellheim, "what's the first thing on the agenda?"  
  
Garion read off the agenda, "Well, first of all, The Mimbrates of Dal Perivor want to begin trade with the Algarians for horses."  
  
Zakath winced at that. "I've seen their horses," he informed them, "They're no bigger than large dogs." It all went on like that for awhile, hammering out treaties, designating trade routes, and so forth. Unexpectedly, Silk, or Prince Kheldar of Drasnia (a title he seldom used) leaned back in his chair.  
  
"You know," he said reflectively, " This is all so boring somehow. We've spent a decade or so fighting evil gods, searching for various magical stones, and going by the rules of two all-powerful omnipotent beings to correct a mistake that happened millennia ago. This seems so disgustingly.......... safe, somehow."  
  
"Kheldar." reproved Ran Borune XXIV, Emperor of Tolnedra.  
  
"Sorry about offending your delicate sensibilities, Varana. Can you ever forgive me?" Silk put on a hugely exaggerated face of sincerity.  
  
"Just when you thought there was hope......... " murmured Velvet, Silk's wife.  
  
Silk flashed her a grin, and Garion noted, as he always did when he saw the two, how perfect they were for each other. He was about to voice this when Sadi, the Nyissan ambassador said something first.  
  
"I feel the same way, Kheldar," said Sadi, "I wish sometimes that we could have a adventures again, that something exciting would happen."  
  
And, lo and behold...........  
  
Silk saw it first.  
  
"Belar!" he cried out, his normally unreadable face shocked.  
  
"What is it?" demanded Hettar, the prince of the Algars, was shaken to see the normally unflappable Silk so startled.  
  
"That!" Silk pointed to the center of the room, where a purple cloud was forming. Everyone either drew a weapon or ran to the other side of the room, while the sorcerers clenched their wills. Garion, after a moment's thought, translocated his sword from the throne room. When it appeared in his hands, he went into a fighter's crouch, and watched the familiar blue flames run over the blade. Suddenly, the cloud opened, and a lanky figure tumbled out. Then, the cloud faded, leaving only wisps of lavender smoke drifting around as if cut off from the source. The figure was sprawled on ground, completely still. Garion cautiously approached the figure and prodded it with his sword. The figure groaned and twitched, obviously in pain. When Polgara heard the person groan, she started toward it, worry on her flawless face, Ariana, the Mimbrate healer beside her. Durnik, Polgara's husband stopped her. "Pol, don't! He might be dangerous!"  
  
She looked at her husband with a bit of amusement on her face.  
  
"We don't know that, dear, just like we don't know whether it's a man or not."  
  
"Well, all right, but be careful. I don't know what I'd do without you."  
  
"Let's hope we never have to find out. Now, Ariana...."  
  
The two knelt by the unconscious figure. Polgara reached out and pulled the hood back.  
  
There were gasps of disbelief all around the room, and Garion had nearly dropped his sword. The face was ebony-skinned, framed by long white hair. Yet, despite all this, the face was handsome, even beautiful, and his coloring was not a defect, but added to his exoticness. It was obvious that he was not of this world. Ariana, almost reverently, moved one of the locks of hair on the side of his face. She looked up with awe on her face. Without her usual eloquence, she murmured;  
  
"He has pointed ears." 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three  
  
Drizzt could feel himself coming back into consciousness, like a diver swimming to surface. He opened his eyes, and immediately shut them. The light was blinding! He tried again after a few moments, and found that it hurt his delicate eyes less. He blinked a few times, and the room came into focus. There was a strange-looking group standing around a lavishly decorated room. In the turmoil of his thoughts only, one registered clearly; the goblin had sent him somewhere, and that somewhere was not near Mithral Hall. Slowly, as to not draw attention to himself, he drew himself into a sitting position. A lady, and a strikingly beautiful one at that, noticed this, and calmly announced, "He's awake." Immediately, Drizzt found himself looking down the tip of a large, blue, flaming sword. He looked at the wielder of the sword. He was a tall, sandy- haired man. There was wariness in his face, of course, but there was some hesitation in his eyes. Drizzt understood that feeling very well. This man would kill only to protect his friends and loved ones. Then, a voice entered on his bemused and slightly pain-hazed thoughts.  
  
"Oh, Garion, put down the sword. I doubt that he's in any condition to hurt anyone."  
  
"But Grandfather..,"  
  
"Put it back in the throne room, Garion, the guards are probably in hysterics...,"  
  
As the two bickered, Drizzt looked around the room, seeking out any dangers. There were several strange people around the room. One of the people was a rat-faced man who was looking at him suspiciously, and his hand kept straying toward what looked very much like a dagger hidden in his shirt. A pale man in a long, shimmering green robe was talking to a ravishing blond woman, and showing her something in a clay bottle. With his keen hearing, he heard a faint purr coming from the bottle. The others in the room were quietly talking to each other, once in a while giving him a glance. Finally, the argument of the old man and the blond man, or Garion, he remembered, had calmed down. Garion made an exasperated noise and held out his sword and spoke a word. The sword abruptly disappeared. There was a loud roaring sound, and Drizzt flinched visibly. The old man noticed this.  
  
"Did you hear something?"  
  
Drizzt hesitated for a moment. Then,  
  
"Yes."  
  
His voice came out in a rasp. He tried again. This time his voice came out more normally.  
  
"Yes"  
  
Rather startled by the drow's melodic voice, the old man continued.  
  
"Only a sorcerer could hear that noise."  
  
Drizzt made a noise that if made by a human being, would have been a snort.  
  
"I'm not a sorcerer."  
  
"Then how did you get here, and in such a dramatic way?"  
  
Sourly, Drizzt getting annoyed with this question and answer session, snapped  
  
"A spell gone wrong."  
  
"A spell? There are no such things, unless you mean a demon raising incantation."  
  
Drizzt laughed without humor.  
  
"The last time I tried that, the demon was only banished for a hundred years, and he vowed to come back and get me."  
  
A tall, slightly bowlegged man with a scalp lock quietly remarked  
  
"At least you would be dead by then."  
  
"If you think that, then you know nothing of my race."  
  
The old man was now looking more curious than cautious.  
  
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.  
  
"I mean," Drizzt said, "That we can live up to five hundred years at least. If one was blessed by Lloth,"he spat the last word with startling vehemence" one could live for more than a thousand years. Or cursed," He added, "It depends on how you see it."  
  
Silk was having a hard time reading the strange nonhuman's face. He could see a flash of anger and sorrow at the mention of Lloth. He knew that it was a delicate subject, but finally his curiosity got the better of him,  
  
"Who is Lloth?" he asked.  
  
The look he got was searching, as if the stranger wanted to make sure that he was not threatening.  
  
"Lloth," he began, "is the drow goddess, the Spider Queen. She is evil and twisted, and thrives on chaos and pain. Hope that you never meet her."  
  
Silk remarked "That sounds like someone we used to know. Am I correct in assuming that you are a drow?"  
  
Drizzt nodded. "Either that, or dark elf. However, I take no pride in admitting this, for I forsook Lloth, my people, and my homeland to live among the surface dwellers. But it was no easy task, for the tales of the deeds of the other drow had made people believe that all drow were totally evil, and so I wandered for years, searching for a home. Wherever I went, looking for a place where people would accept me for myself, and not for my outward appearance, I was driven away, sometimes fleeing for my life, or politely but firmly being asked to leave."  
  
"What happened?" whispered Ce'Nedra. Garion had been so absorbed in the story, that he was surprised to see tears running down her face. Even the more unemotional people in the room had slightly damp cheeks, and Lelldorin, Ariana, and Mandorallen were sobbing into their hands. Arends, after all, are an emotional people. Mandorallen, with tears running down his face, stepped forward.  
  
"Upon my life, I shall march beside you, and hope to call thee friend. Together, we shall fall like wolves upon these foul miscreants who dare give slander to such a noble, brave, and all-enduring soul!"  
  
He looked a bit uncomfortable at this, and said,  
  
"That won't be necessary. After years of wandering, I came to a place called Icewind Dale. It is a harsh and unforgiving, place, but there I found a group of friends that are dearer to me than my life. Wulfgar, Bruenor, Regis, and..., Catti-Brie," he said softly.  
  
Ce'Nedra looked at him knowingly, and Garion knew immediately what his tiny wife was thinking. To head off any questions on her part, he offered a hand to the drow. He grasped it, and Garion helped him to his feet.  
  
"May I offer you the hospitality of my Citadel, until we find a way for you to get home?"  
  
The drow smiled. "I would be honored."  
  
Garion grinned back. "My name is Garion."  
  
"I am Drizzt Do'Urden." 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
  
There was an expression of shock on Drizzt's face.  
  
"You killed a god?" he choked out.  
  
Garion leaned back in his chair and sighed.  
  
"Yes," he said sadly, "But even though he was twisted and evil, he was still a god, and killing a god is a terrible thing to do."  
  
"By the way" Belgarath said unexpectedly," What kind of gods do you have in your world?"  
  
As Drizzt mused over this question, he toyed with his glass of water. Garion saw this, and grinned. He recalled with some amusement what had happened earlier.  
  
*Flashback*  
  
"I'm thirsty now," commented Belgarath. "I'm not used to so much talking."  
  
"I never thought I'd see the day," snipped Polgara.  
  
Belgarath gave Garion a sidelong glance. Garion understood and pulled himself to his feet.  
  
"Silk?" he queried.  
  
"Ale for me too."  
  
"Barak?"  
  
"All right."  
  
"Master Drizzt?"  
  
The drow elf made a face. "Thank you for the offer, but I'd prefer water."  
  
The curious Silk asked, "Do you get intoxicated easily?"  
  
"No, quite the opposite, actually. I can drink gallons, and not get dizzy. But I hate the taste, and the smell is terrible."  
  
Poledra looked at him appreciatively, and Velvet spoke to Silk. "Are you taking notes, Kheldar?"  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yes. You."  
*End Flashback* His thinking was interrupted by Drizzt's answer.  
  
"There are hundreds. No one has ever been able to count them all. But some of the more noticeable ones are Mystra, the goddess of magic, Cyric, the god of murder, Helm the god of watchers and guardians. Also there are the old gods, Amaunator being the most important. Then there is Lloth, the Spider Queen."  
  
"There's a god of murder?" said the horrified yet fascinated Lelldorin."  
  
Ce'Nedra shivered. From Drizzt's descriptions, Lloth was as bad as Torak. She couldn't even imagine the suffering he had gone through, and all because he wanted to find a home, where his enemies would just leave him alone.  
  
To head off an uncomfortable situation, she asked, "Which god do you follow, if I may be so bold?"  
  
Drizzt gave her a gentle smile. "It's all right, your Majesty. But I follow no god."  
  
"Well, that's understandable," said Hettar in typical Alorn understatement.  
  
"Ah, but you have missed my meaning, your Highness," said a smirking Drizzt. Realization dawned on Garion just as Silk blurted it out.  
  
"What he means, Hettar, is that he follows a goddess, a female deity."  
  
"What is the name of your goddess, Master Drizzt?" asked Relg, the Ulgo zealot, in a slightly disapproving tone.  
  
"Relg, not again..."  
  
"Her name is Mielikki, the Lady of the Forest," he said in his quiet voice, and Garion could see the awe and love that he bore for the goddess in his eyes.  
  
Silk cleared his throat and said, "Ahh, friend Drizzt?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You can drop the 'your Highness' bit. We're all friends here. I'm sure that goes for everyone here, am I correct?"  
  
Everyone around the room nodded. They all felt a peculiar kinship with the stoic drow ranger.  
  
"So, please don't call me Highness, under any circumstances. All right? My name is Silk."  
  
"Then you must call me Drizzt."  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"Drizzt," Belgarath said suddenly, "I'm afraid you are going to have to lay low while you stay at Riva. We don't want anyone to attack you, and you are fairly noticeable. Oh, and Silk..."  
  
"Yes, Belgarath?"  
  
"If you breathe a word of this to Javelin, or to anyone else, you'll wish Taur Urgas had gotten you. That goes for you too, Liselle.  
  
"Yes, Ancient One. It shall be as you say."  
  
"I mean it, young lady!"  
  
"Cheer up, Belgarath. The worst that could happen was that the Bear-Cult would find out..."  
  
No sooner was this said when the guard outside the door poked his head into the room. Drizzt was barely able to get his hood up in time. The guard, looking flustered, stammered,  
  
"A thousand pardons, my lords and ladies, but the High Priest is here to see you. I told him that you were not to be disturbed, but he insisted."  
  
Garion straightened in his chair and said in a imposing voice,  
  
"The Crown is always eager to listen to the emissary of the Bear-Cult."  
  
As the guard scurried outside, Polgara murmured to Garion,  
  
"You're getting better at this, dear."  
  
"Practice makes perfect."  
  
During this little exchange, Poledra looked straight at Drizzt.  
  
"One would advise one to keep one's hood down. The Bear-Cult would think the worst of one. They are very good at seeing only what is on the outside, and not what is beneath." Drizzt, puzzling past the strange dialogue, nodded his thanks.  
  
The High Priest was an impressive sight. He was seven feet tall, and had a bushy beard that stuck out in all directions. Ce'Nedra always was fascinated in watching him talk . "It's like an animated hedge." She told Garion once.  
The priest stood before them now, looking out-of-place in the posh surroundings, in rough, uncured bear hide and chain mail. He bowed and proclaimed in a loud voice,  
  
"Hail, Belgarion, Godslayer, Overlord of the West, Lord of the Western Sea."  
  
"Hello, Jarok. Have a seat."  
  
The huge man fumbled a bit, than took the nearest chair, which creaked in protest. He leaned forward, a serious expression on his face.  
  
"Your Majesty, gladly would I talk with you, but a matter of severe urgency has come to my attention."  
  
Garion put an expression of polite, distant interest on his face.  
  
"Oh? What's that?"  
  
"Do you perchance remember what Belar said before he left to guide us in spirit form?"  
  
"You mean, leading the West against the Angaraks? But the Angaraks are no longer a threat, as you can see." Garion gestured toward Zakath and Urgit. The priest gave a nervous glance toward the others in the room, and continued rather delicately.  
  
"Your Majesty, when are you planning on, ahh, expanding your realm?"  
  
Then, all hell broke loose. Everyone with a weapon leapt to their feet, shouting obscenities. Drizzt heard several hair-raising comments on the man's mother, birth, and bathing habits. He chuckled inwardly at some of the words. These people could put Bruenor to shame. Garion came to his feet, his eyes blazing.  
  
"Jarok, the rulers of all the countries in the known world are either friends or acquaintances. I would not risk those friendships for the world."  
  
"You could have the world, you fool! With your sorcery, you could cut down any army..." "Not a word!" roared Garion, his patience worn thin.  
  
The priest clambered awkwardly to his feet, and Drizzt noted with interest that his face was rapidly turning a bright shade of purple.  
  
"You could rule the world," he hissed, "and I would be more powerful than an emperor."  
  
"The world is not meant to be ruled by any man, and I think the gods would disapprove," retorted Garion.  
  
"You are dismissed, Jarok, and let me hear no more of this." The enraged priest started toward Garion, but Drizzt stepped in front of him and drew his scimitars.  
  
"You will leave," he said flatly, "Now."  
  
The priest swallowed heavily, and backed out of the room.  
  
"You'll hear from me soon, Godslayer," he promised. "Don't think I'll forget this!"  
  
He turned, and stalked out of the room. 


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five D.A. Next chapter! Yay! For all you Guen fans out there, yes, Guenhwyvar is in this chapter. Also, I am now aware that I spelled Cyradis wrong. Thank you, Sliph, for pointing out both those things. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for...THE STORY!  
  
Drizzt stood at the balcony, letting the night air blow through his white hair. The moon glinted off the ocean as it crashed against the rocks. His mind, however, unlike the calm, cool night, was in turmoil. He appreciated the Rivan King's hospitality, but he longed for Faerun, and Mithril Hall. Sighing, he went back into his room.  
  
Different magic, different people, no dwarves or elves of any kind...What have I gotten myself into this time?  
  
Sitting in a chair near the window, he sat and thought until a horrifying thought came to him.  
  
Wait... Different magic? Does that mean that I can't call Guenhwyvar?  
  
Coming to his feet at the very thought, he rooted franticly in his belt pouch, and he drew out the marvelous figurine and laid it on the floor. "Guenhwyvar!" he called desperately, hoping against hope that his friend could still make the journey.  
  
............................................................................................................ It was nighttime in Guenwyvar's astral plane, and the panther herself was lounging in a tree, having gorged herself on an unlucky antelope. Her ears pricked up as she heard Drizzt's call, and she immediately knew that something was wrong. The call was very faint, almost a whisper, and she leapt through the portal, scared that something had happened to Drizzt. After a while, she stopped, confused. The journey was taking far too long. Then, the call came again, stronger. Guenwyvar ran full tilt, heeding her master's call.  
  
............................................................................................................  
  
Drizzt slumped to the floor, grieved. Not only were his friends in another world entirely, his oldest companion was unable to answer his call. He sadly picked up the figurine and prepared to tuck it back into his pouch, when a faint grey mist gathered in front of him. He quickly turned around and watched the mist anxiously. Slowly, the great panther formed, and became solid. The giant cat crouched, tail lashing, looking for any signs of danger. Drizzt sighed in relief and hugged the tense panther. "It's all right, my friend. There's nothing here," he said. The giant panther gave him a disgusted look, and sat down to wash herself. He laughed, gave the cat one last pat, and sent her home.  
  
............................................................................................................ Jarok stomped around the room, muttering to himself. How dare he?! I'm one of the most powerful men on this rock they call an island, and he treats me like a common peasant, to be ordered around. The very thought made him want to scream.  
  
"Where is that messenger?"  
  
He snarled, and continued to pace the room like a caged wolf. The house was at the very outskirts of the city, in the less reputable part of town. He glared in distaste at the shabby surroundings. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. He stomped over and yanked it open. A burly-looking Alorn in bear skins stood there, panting from running hard. He saluted, and said,  
  
"Holy one, the forces are in place. Your commanders await your orders."  
  
Jarok allowed himself a smirk before saying,  
  
"Get the men in place. We attack tonight."  
  
The cultist started visibly before stuttering out,  
  
"B-but we have had no time to plan! What if..."  
  
The man flinched as Jarok snarled,  
  
"I don't care, you jackass! I want every able-bodied man devoted to Belar ready for battle! Now move, man!"  
  
The messenger saluted, and said, "At once, Holy One! Or," he added slyly, "Should I say, Emperor?"  
  
The Head Priest gestured impatiently, eager to at last begin the crusade to spread Belar's worship to the wider world.  
  
"Get out of here."He growled. The man scurried out of the room, and once he was gone, Jarok settled into a chair and smirked to himself. Soon, Belgarion, he thought with an evil smile on his bearded face. Very soon.  
  
............................................................................ ....................................................................Drizzt mused this new development. He was currently hovering eight feet in the air above his bed. It did not help in figuring out this puzzle, he decided, but added another piece. But still, why were his magic returning? A few minutes before, he had thought of testing his levitation magic to see if it would work. Apparently, it did. He floated down, and sat cross-legged on the bed. He was still thinking when he drifted off, exhausted by the day's events. ...........................................................................................................D.A. Yes, I am quite aware that this is a short chapter. But I wanted to post it, so live with it. Hmmm, maybe I should do a Rurouni Kenshin story next... 


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

D.A. Okay, here's my next chapter. But first, I'm going to respond to some reviews...

**Kell Shock:**

Yes, there _are_ trees in Guenhwyvar's astral plane.

Yes, there is definitely night and day there, _and _there are seasons.

Also, there are animals. Remember when Guenhwyvar caught Regis something to eat in the books?

And no, in this chapter, we don't see Drizzt fight. Sorry! (p.s.: I do verify what I write!)

**Yasei Raiden:**

Actually, people can levitate in this world, but not often. Thank you very much; I am enjoying writing this story.

Well, with that done, here's the story.

Garion slept uneasily, tossing and turning. His dreams were haunted by hazy images of monsters in bear skins. Finally, disgusted and sandy-eyed, he rose, and went out on to his balcony. He leaned out, breathed in the briny air, and felt much better. He was about to go back inside, when something caught his eye. A few miles away from the Citadel, there was a flickering line of lights. His breath caught. He was traveled enough to know what that meant. An army. With torches, no less. _What a cliché,_ he thought.

It didn't take a genius to figure what_ those_ people were. But now was not the time to laugh over the stupidity of the enemy. He ran inside and shook Ce'Nedra awake.

"Ce'Nedra," he said urgently. "Ce'Nedra, wake up!"

She sat bolt upright, and asked,

"Garion, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?"

"There's no time to explain. Stay here with the children and don't come out, no matter what happens."

"But," she started to say, but was quickly cut off. "Ce'Nedra, listen to me just this once. We're under attack. I need to get the others."

"All right," she said hesitantly. 'Be careful, though."

He smiled at her and gave her a quick kiss. "I love you." She whispered.

Garion ran through the hallway, and pounded on the nearest door.

"Grandfather! Grandfather, wake up!" he shouted.

"What?!" came the irritable reply.

"Grandfather, there's an army coming! Hurry!"

There was a pause, and the door was yanked open. Garion, despite the situation, tried not to laugh. The mighty Belgarath the Sorcerer, the seven-thousand year-old man, was dressed in a white nightshirt.

"Don't laugh at me, Garion. Who's attacking?" Belgarath's voice was crisp.

Garion immediately felt ashamed of himself.

"I have no idea, but they're carrying torches."

"You're not serious!"

"I thought it was stupid too. What should we do?"

"Get your sword. I'll raise the alarm."

"How are you going to do that?"

"Garion, screw your head on right. Now don't you need your sword? Don't stand around asking questions, boy! Move!"

Garion winced. "That was unkind."

"I know. Now will you please hurry?"

Garion grumbled, but obeyed. Running down the hall, he wondered what the old sorcerer was going to do. The huge peal of a bell solved_ that_ question.

**THRONGGGGGG**

The sound was so loud, it nearly knocked him off his feet. He grinned savagely. For no reason at all, he wondered if the approaching army could hear it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Drizzt sat upright when he heard the sound. He winced in pain and covered his ears. It sounded like a tundra yeti stomping on an unimaginably huge gong. He paused only long enough to put on his scimitars, his cloak, and his belt pouch and ran outside. The hallway was filled with people milling around. At the far side of the hallway was Garion's group of friends, talking urgently. He strode over to them, and asked,

"What in the Nine Hells is going on? And what was that noise?"

The look on Belgarath's face was grim. "We're under attack."

Hearing those words, the drow ranger was immediately on the alert.

"How can I help?"

Belgarath was about to say something when Velvet beat him to it.

"Drizzt, you said that elves can see better than humans?"

Drizzt nodded, and wondered where she was going with this conversation.

"Well," she said with an impish smile, "He can go outside and see who's leading that army out there, and how many there are."

Silk was looking at her in absolute horror.

"Yes, Kheldar?" she said sweetly. Silk let that pass.

A few moments later, they were all standing on a balcony. Durnik carried a candle that sputtered in the breeze. Drizzt leaned out, straining his eyes to their limits. Finally, he turned around and politely asked Durnik to put the candle out.

"Why?" asked the confused man.

"I'm going to do something out of the ordinary," Drizzt replied. "Please, Goodman."

The smith shrugged and pinched out the flame. Drizzt resumed his position at the railing and concentrated. Silk, who watched the proceedings with interest, leapt back with an oath.

"Your eyes are glowing purple!" he gasped.

"You noticed," Drizzt said sardonically. He scanned the coming horde. They were all dressed in bear skins and mail shirts. The torches they carried stung his eyes, but he ignored that and peered closer. He saw something that made him freeze up. When he turned back to his friends, his eyes were his normal violet hue.

"Well, well, well. It looks like we're going to see an old friend very soon." He remarked.

"Out with it," rumbled Barak. "Who is about to grace us with his presence?"

"I believe you said his name to be Jarok?"

"What?!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------D.A. Hee Hee. Sorry about that, but I had to stop _somewhere._ But I promise that there will be fighting in the next chapter.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven Okay, review time! I finally topped 20! Yay!  
  
Sliph: Yes, I know that Drizzt's eyes glow purple. I forgot, however.  
  
Amigo: Geez, I know, already!  
  
Boohyah: Thank you! Yes, a whole lot of people will be quite a bit more than mildly surprised. Oh, and all the girls at Riva will be drooling over him. You know, same old, same old.  
  
Kell Shock: I'm only going by what the books tell me.  
  
DemonOfShadow: Ha! The chapter you've all been waiting for; the fighting!  
  
Chipmunkagainstheleprechauns: You are very welcome. I've searched the web a couple of times and came up with moot. I really don't usually do disclaimers, but I just pulled off a dance performance at my school and I'm feeling lenient. So here's a disclaimer just for you...  
  
Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING I WRITE ABOUT, SO DON'T SUE ME! Howzat?  
  
On with the show!  
  
.....................................................~*~................................................  
  
"How many soldiers do you have at the moment?" inquired Velvet.  
  
Garion scanned the numbers he had added up on the page. His lips thinned as he read the result. "Fifty-three." He said grimly.  
  
Belgarath slammed his fist against the table furiously. "This was all a setup!" he burst out. Then he turned around to face the Rivan King.  
  
"Where on this earth are your other guards, boy?"  
  
Garion sighed and drew a map out of a pocket. He spread it on the table, and pointed to a fief on the other side of the isle.  
  
"There were reports of bandits in Marellon's duchy. I sent them there."  
  
"You sent four-fifths of your guard to deal with chicken thieves? Were you drinking that night?"  
  
"It was yesterday, Grandfather, and they were doing more than stealing chickens. They-"  
  
"Javelin did say that the Bear-Cult was mobilizing again," interrupted Silk, who was leaning against the table. They were all standing once again in the blue-draped council room, waiting for a lieutenant they had sent out to gauge the time until the attack.  
  
"But not like this! Not by attacking Riva!"  
  
Zakath now stepped forward.  
  
"It could be that this Jarok fellow of yours wants to dominate the central power of the West, which is the Orb, of course. And since he can't touch it without being maimed, like a certain dead God we know, he needs to control Garion. Control Garion, control the Orb, control the West."  
  
At that moment, the lieutenant rushed into the room, his rabbit-like face frightened. He knelt before Garion and blurted out,  
  
"My King, the army will be here within the hour."  
  
Garion swore, and the man looked up in surprise. Then, he stood up, grabbed his sword, and strode toward the door, calling over his shoulder as he went, "I'm going onto the battlements. Anyone care to join me?"  
  
Drizzt was already there, leaning over the battlements, watching as the mob struggled to maintain order. A few had gone berserk, and were hacking at the walls with assorted weaponry. An archer saw him, shouted a warning, and shot an arrow in his general direction. He didn't even flinch when a badly-aimed arrow bounced off the wall only five feet away. He did, however, turn from watching the army when Garion & Co. came up behind him. Then the harried-looking Captain of the Guard came over and gave a smart salute. 'Majesty,' he said respectfully, 'your orders?'  
  
Garion nodded toward the captain, and said,  
  
'Form the guards at the gate. Quickly.'  
  
The man bowed, turned on his heel, and strode out into the night. Faintly, they could hear him shouting orders.  
  
'Not very talkative, was he?' Drizzt drawled from his position on the battlements. Garion shrugged and said simply, 'He's of Algar descent. None of them talk very much.' Drizzt looked confused for a minute, but spoke again.  
  
"Well, what do you think would be the best strategy for this? I've never been in such a situation."  
  
"And from what you've told us, that would be saying a lot, right? But anyway, the only thing to do is meet them head-on. Out-and-out savagery, that's all what the Bear-Cult understands. Which is bad for them. Very bad."  
  
Drizzt looked very interested at this, and even moved a knee up onto the battlements.  
  
"What in the name of Belar are you doing?" muttered Barak as he hurried forward , arms outstretched in an attempt to keep his new friend from falling off the wall. Drizzt replied by giving Barak a grin that could be seen even with his hood down over his face, one of the most evil he had ever seen.  
  
"Why, I'm only going by the advice the king gave me. Out-and-out savagery. Might as well beat them at their own game."  
  
And with a single, wicked, gleeful laugh, he propelled himself from the wall. He landed on the ground with perfect balance, his scimitars appearing in his hands as he did so. Ignoring the cries of shock from both the battlements and the cultists, he charged the nearest group.  
  
Garion, however, was not nearly so elated. Shrugging off his aunt's arms, he ran down off the battlements, his friends pounding behind him. As he neared the gates, which were opening slowly, despite the efforts of the soldiers, Garion gathered his Will, pointed at the gates, and shouted, "Open!"  
  
The gates opened with an ear-splitting crash, and the cultists poured in. Garion was too angry at all this foolishness to even notice the overwhelming odds.  
  
Silk dove and slashed with his daggers, and each cut was perfect, for a man who was truly too old for this kind of thing. His wife, Velvet, wearing clothes very similar to those she had worn at Korim, fought beside him, her movements in perfect harmony with his.  
  
Barak, cursed with becoming into a giant bear when the Rivan King was in danger (because of a certain meddling Prophecy) lost all vestiges of humanity to transform into a bear (were-bear, ahhhhhh!) and tore into the ranks of soldiers like bits of chaff.  
  
Mandorallen, his great two-handed sword seeming a small thing in his large hands, roared his battle cry to Chaldan, as he mowed through the cultists.  
  
Durnik, good old sensible Durnik, seemed a terrible thing indeed, wielding his great sledge, with which he had slain the demon Nahaz, and his face an icy mask of rage.  
  
Zakath, the ruler of half the world, had his saber, maimed more than killed, and the moans of his victims raised a fearful din on the battlefield.  
  
Hettar, fighting with an unearthly skill, managed to defend himself, while stampeding the horses of those mounted, no mean feat.  
  
Relg with his hook pointed Ulgo knife, fought with almost a clinical detachment, all the while murmuring in his guttural language.  
  
Lelldorin stood on the battlements, his blond hair streaming in the breeze, was shooting down cultists, many in a minute. What the Austurian lacked in intelligence, he made up for it with unwavering loyalty and childlike exuberance.  
  
Around the edges of the fray bounded two wolves, hamstringing the stragglers. These were, in truth, Belgarath and Poledra, with Poledra in her natural form.  
  
Garion fought with classic berserker rage. In his anger, he did not see the slingstone coming. He staggered and fell, unconscious. A cultist rushed toward him, yelling with triumph. Drizzt saw everything, and began cursing in drow, the only language he knew that had more swear words than goblin. Still fending off attackers, he drew the tiny figurine out of his pouch. Calling Guenhwyvar, he explained the situation, and she loped off in the direction of Garion, her tail held high. From the shouts and screams coming from her direction, Drizzt could only guess what was happening.  
  
Above all, Drizzt, with both scimitars whirling, was poetry in motion. Even the cultists he was about to cut down gaped at him. Just then, in the height of the battle, an arrow whizzed over his head, missing him, but snagging his hood, yanking it back, and tearing it off.  
  
There was a collective gasp from everyone around, and in the lull, Silk covered his eyes.  
  
"The priests are going to give us hell over this...," he mumbled through gritted teeth. Nobody, however, expected the first three ranks of cultists to throw down their weapons and run screaming off into the chill night. Their fears were rightly founded, too. With the pale, wan moonlight shining off his hair, his black skin contrasting so sharply, and fires in his eyes, he was a fiend out of nightmares.  
  
With the cultists out of the way, nothing was between him and the High Priest. The man visibly cowered as Drizzt approached him, bloodstained scimitars at the ready. Despite everything, Drizzt vaguely pitied the man, ruthless as he had been to his men, watching them being cut down, without making any move to help them. The large man turned to flee, but Drizzt's enchanted bracers quickly put him in front. Desperate, Jarok scrabbled at his word belt, but a neat kick from his adversary spun his sword out of reach. Jarok suddenly found a scimitar against his throat, and made himself absolutely still. Jarok, apparently, had gotten a good close look at Death, and he didn't like it.  
  
"Call off your men," Drizzt instructed, no sign of the earlier pity in his voice. Jarok gulped, and called out,  
  
"Throw down your swords!" His voice was squeaky, and seemed all the more ridiculous coming from a man his size. The cultists looked at each other for support and, slowly, one by one, dropped their weapons. Jarok, still standing still, suddenly had an idea. Slowly he maneuvered himself into the right position, and kicked back at his captor. Momentarily startled, Drizzt gave chase, and the head cultist was quickly put to sleep with the pommel of Twinkle.  
  
Slowly, shyly, the horizon over the ocean began to lighten, then rays of light spread across the still-dark sky. Weary, cultist, soldier, and noble watched the sky brightened, bringing with it a new dawn. The battle, which, in the future, would come to be called the Battle of the Rivan Hall, was over.  
  
Whew, I'm too exhausted to type anymore, so that's it! 


	8. Short Chapter!

(Small)Chapter Eight  
  
...  
  
Hi! So sorry I haven't updated for a while, but what with the onslaught of summer, I've been very busy. So, forgive me? Sorry, no answers to reviews today!  
  
Garion scrubbed at sleep-filled eyes as he calculated numbers in his head. With a sigh that was more sad than angry, he came to a conclusion.  
  
"Eighteen," he murmured under his breath. "Eighteen dead."  
  
"Garion?"  
  
Garion twisted around in his chair and peered at the doorway. Ce'Nedra stood there, her face weary but alert.  
  
"Garion, you must be exhausted. How are you going to function when you look like you've risen from the dead?"  
  
Garion stood up and strode over to the window. Setting his elbows on the windowsill, he watched the servants from the castle cringingly removing dead bodies from the battlefield.  
  
"How can I sleep when there is work to be done?" He said in a flat voice, "How can I sleep when there are families without a son or a father, waiting for me to pass judgment on their murderers?"  
  
He heard Ce'Nedra sigh, and the sound of her footsteps as she joined him at the windowsill.  
  
"You won't be any help to those poor people if you collapse of exhaustion," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "And as for judgment, that should be easy enough. Kill them."  
  
"Ce'Nedra!"  
  
"They tried to kill my family, Garion! If you let them go—"  
  
"I'm not going to let them go." By looking at the face of his angry wife, he had come to his solution. "They murdered my guards, some who were friends. I'm not going to kill them, but they won't go free."  
  
...  
  
Very short chapter, but I'm updating all of my stories today, so this is just a sample chapter. I'd better get going! 


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